


This Place is a Dream

by shipcat



Series: Assorted Tumblr and Discord Drabbles [15]
Category: Naruto
Genre: And Rasa is his unwilling victim, Chances are Sasori is a bastard, Drabble Collection, Gen, M/M, Other, That's ok we stan him, naruto rare pair, warnings to be added as they come up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-08-23 20:00:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20207959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shipcat/pseuds/shipcat
Summary: Sasori/Rasa Drabble and One-Shot Collection.





	1. Table of Contents

**Author's Note:**

  * For [awintersrose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/awintersrose/gifts), [tropicalgothic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tropicalgothic/gifts).
**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This drabble collection is a place for me to stuff all my scribbles for this particular rare pair. Dedicated to Amaya and Rose because they together made me love Rasa and indulge my shipping nonsense <3

1\. As Fools Do, prompt: "A kiss to the forehead."

2\. Why It Aches, prompt: "Trepverter."

3\. Migraines, prompt: “Noceur.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Links and summaries TBA <3


	2. As Fools Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That one same age childhood friends AU where Rasa mistakenly thinks Sasori is not a he, but a she named Sasa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As Fools Do, prompt: "A kiss to the forehead," for [@aWintersRose](https://awintersrose.tumblr.com) on Tumblr.
> 
> Warning: Rasa misgenders Sasori, but Sasori never bothers correcting him, as gender isn't particularly important to him.
> 
> Onto the story!

She is sitting inside his family courtyard, playing with a stray kitten, when Rasa first notices her rough edges. It is in the way she scowls under her veil—because I am late, he presumes—the rigidity of her spine, ruler straight in the sand; how her bony wrists dangle in the air, trying fruitlessly to pet the cat dancing about her hands.

Rasa can’t help it. He snorts.

“What?” She notices him. “You’re _late_,” she accuses, jolting up.

“You’re early,” he teases. “So eager to see me.”

“So eager to avoid me,” she bites back, nearly tripping on the cat weaving in and out of her legs. Scooping up the stray, she stalks out onto the street, scarf fluttering behind her. If he reached out, he could grab that scarf and tug her in close, protesting, giving her the hug she desperately needs. Then, three steps later and the scarf flits around the corner. Out of sight but never, ever, out of mind.

Rasa can’t help it. He follows after, long steps easily catching up to her short ones. She’s mumbling about something - possibly her art, more likely him - and pretends not to take notice when he reaches her side.

“Sasa,” Rasa starts, “You’re in quite a state. I was only a minute off. My parents - ”

“What about them?” Sasa snaps, voice cracking. “I don’t care. We made a date—have the decency to be on time.”

There’s nothing to do but bite his cheek and keep up with the storm he’s chosen to marry, rolling his eyes at her behavior. She will tell him why she’s mad, if she wants to; if not, Rasa will simply wait and wait until she bursts like a glutted tick.

He’s far more patient than she is. Far more patient, not as particular, as or secretive in ways he can hardly fathom. Sasa is the only person he knows who feeds the spiders before letting them out; she is the only one who hides her soft spots behind a shell of prickly rage.

For example: the too-skinny cat mewling over her elbow, begging Rasa for either food, or pets, or freedom.

“What have you named it?” he asks, as they arrive at the debilitated fort serving as their date spot. Perhaps asking too early, as her tensing back indicates.

Sasa kicks over an upturned rock and squats on it, sullenly scratching the ragged animal. Sun peeks through broken rock walls, stripes of gold licking at her shoulders. She’s ignoring him, of course, which only begs the question why.

“Fool,” she suddenly answers, “after you.”

Rasa isn’t dumb. He knows this. So does she, resolutely ignoring him in favor of intently petting the cat.

“This fool is flattered that you thought of him.”

“It wasn’t a compliment.”

“A fool would think it were.” And then without further argument he sits at her side, shoulder a scant three inches from her own. A respectful distance, though he’d do anything to close it as teens do. As they do. As he does.

Rasa slinks an arm around Sasa before she realizes, kissing through her veil.

“You’re going to war,” he says. Her outraged huff warms his lips through the cloth. “I am too,” he quickly adds. “My parents disagree. We argued. This is why I was late.”

Furrowing her brows, Sasa opens her mouth, then snaps it shut. She, more than anything, knows the frustration of dealing with stubborn guardians, and it shows in how she angrily toes the sand, grumbling, “stupid.”

It is stupid, Rasa thinks. It is too hot to hold each other like this, even in the chill of their fort. His robes are damp with sweat, and heat wafts up from her arms—the little creature wriggling there, begging for attention. Yet Rasa can’t bring himself to care, tilting up his chin to press his mouth against her copper tresses.

“If you’re ever waiting again, be a little patient. I will be there soon.” Then he blinks as a little paw bats at his face, pulling back to see her and the kitten stare at him, wide-eyed.

He pats them both on the head, kisses her once more for good measure, wondering what it will take to get her out of that veil and into his arms.

It had been quite a long time since they had last were together. Sasa’s upset, irrational as it is—is almost understandable. Almost.

But at this point in their very short lives, Rasa accepts the parts of her that he can’t fix—like the nicks of kunai on her knuckles; the sandy callouses of her palm; the way she looks at him like he is a dream, half-asleep, muttering,

“Promise. That always you’ll come back.”

“Promise.” Rasa replies, like teens do.

As fools do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WDYT? Cute? Not?
> 
> Let me know with a kudos/comments below!
> 
> Conversely, feel free to send an ask on my Tumblr, [@ThatShipCat](https://thatshipcat.tumblr.com).


	3. Why it Aches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rasa arrives to his office as he always does - with a perpetual aura of exhaustion, deep set eye bags, and baby spittle on his suit. Sasori is aghast. (Modern AU, and they were OFFICE MATES, law firm).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anon on Tumblr! Prompt:
> 
> Trepverter — n. 1. Literally, “stepwords”. 2. The words you come up with “on your way out” when it is too late to use them.

**No watch:** ✓

**Crumpled jacket:** ✓

**Nonexistent makeup: **✓ ✓ ✓

“Who taught you to dress yourself,” Sasori mutters, pulling a wet wipe out of his pocket. Rasa sighs as he immediately starts working on the stain in his lapel, straightening out the creases as he goes. “I’m getting a portable iron for our office,” Sasori informs him. No partner of his dresses like a slob. No one.

At one time, Rasa had protested the constant micromanaging. But after a wife, three kids, and subsequent divorce, it was getting harder and harder to manage the little things. He could, of course, remember to pick Temari up when it was his turn for visitation; he could also remember every lunch meeting and trial date as per job requirements. Though, admittedly, his secretary helped with that, per hers.

And as his life became more and more complicated, it became easier to cede control of his appearance to this very particular coworker, who had no doubt already ordered the hand iron to be delivered—yesterday.

“Did you get—?” Rasa starts.

“Your prescription?” The redhead interrupts. “Of course.”

“Good.” Rasa watches those pale hands undo, and redo, his tie. “My chest is starting to… ah, squeeze.”

“I’ll get them.” Sasori nods, immediately stepping away. The door clicks shut behind him. Words bubble in his throat, uncertain and swimming. 

“It aches for you,” he’s surprised to hear himself say.

But Sasori, long gone, doesn’t hear a thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> XOXO,
> 
> Kitty


	4. Migraines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’d be a lie to say that Sasori was a partier; but it also be false to claim that he had sleep hours which were anywhere near remotely regular. Rasa is even worse. Hurt/Comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For magnustesla, prompt, “Noceur.”
> 
> noceur— n. 1) party animal, reveller. one who sleeps late or not at all; or, 2) one who stays out late to revel or party.
> 
> Warnings: Rasa has Migraines, he self-prescribes and -medicates, which is a dumb idea, I made things up.

It is summer.

Drums beat, fast. Below the Kazekage estate, the village square thunders with festivities, colors whirling, laughter ringing, voices singing, chanting, humming. Soon enough, their noise wakes the watery Siddah from his slumber. Soon enough, oceans will fall from the skies.

Rain.

It’s the one time Sunans get leave to smile, feet covered with dirt, mud up to their knees. Even the reclusive scorpion partakes, UV paint flashing as he whirls between puppets, eyes trained on one spot, head snapping, spinning faster, and faster, and faster, until—

Rasa stumbles away from the balcony, skull pounding. Sweat gathers under his ears, dripping down tanned napes and under collar—much too hot, much too tight, much too humid for the night. He barely manages to collapse before the migraine starts proper, head to his desk and heart at his throat.

Rasa groans.

Fog rolls out onto the wood, warm from his breath. Each bang of thunder strikes him to the core, shaking, trembling with each clap.

Paperwork swims in front of him. Gills gleam dark, with ink. White sheets, bright. Too bright, he winces, fumbling for his drawer.

The lovely thing about befriending a poison maker is 24/7 access to a stash—powders smuggled out of mortar, rolled into round piles, and into small vials. Even lovelier that Sasori had not noticed, too busy working on this or that project. Today, festivities; tomorrow, man made oases. Whatever strikes his fancy.

This particular poison is measured in pinches sprinkled between his teeth and lower lip. Bitter bursts onto his taste buds, as usual. Rasa knows better than to swallow.

Then he’s gagging, hand over mouth, spittle over fingers. A fist slams into wood, barely catching his cup of pens. It sears—sun-hot, knife-cool—before sinking into his gums, peppermint flavored. Numbness spreads from there, prickling along gums, to the inside of his cheeks, along the jawline, and into his ear canal proper.

A quiet space settles there, in the cranium. In the head. The aches do not disappear, but gradually fade, first from the bridge of his nose, then deep in the back of his throat, up the brainstem.

He shudders and sighs, rolling his chin onto his forearms. His eyes flutter shut, kohl speckled around the edges. Dreams trickle in, soft. Puppets twirl on. Drums beat. Stop.

Rasa barely hears it. Them. Barely feels the fingers tickling his scalp, thumb circling his brow. Imagines the light pressure against his cheek, the pucker of lips.

The sun rises, dark and dull. Sasori closes the desk drawer, and sets a scarf on Rasa’s back, embroidered with gold. Something light to keep the chill away.

“Goodnight,” he simply states, armbands fluttering with feathers.

He’s gone before the sun rises.


End file.
